The AIDSviator

After roughly 140 posts about virtually nothing, I have nothing more to say. I was at about post number 71 or 74 of my last blog when I realized that my material was wearing thin. You can only say so much about childhood humiliations that have bloomed into flowers of regressive manhood so many times, and I said those things so many times. Some people have real problems like being homeless, having no arms, being homeless and having no arms, or being dead. These people have some good stuff to write. However, it would be progressively harder for them to write following the order that I just listed.

A Howard Hughes autobiography would be/is fascinating. Though we share a few similarities such as our birthplace and the fact that we always urinate in glass milk bottles, we also both have experienced OCD and wear tissue boxes as shoes. We both also like being in airplanes. He liked that so much, in fact, that he revolutionized modern commercial airline travel. I like it so much that whenever I feel turbulence, I scan the plane to see the group of people that I will be living with on a furtive island. Don’t worry pilot, though you will die almost immediately, you will be resurrected by another promising show that turns out to be terrible that is Heroes.

The Aviator is easily one of my all-time favorite movies. I first saw it by myself in a theater near downtown Boston. I had coincidentally spent the previous one and a half days by myself in a hotel room watching Phone Booth on repeat as I obsessed over the fact that I forgot to bring my camera with me. I know you reminded me, but I didn’t listen. I finally made it out of my depressed haze and into a movie theater where I was lucky enough to watch the story of how a man’s life was destroyed by obsessive-compulsive disorder. That really was the only movie ever that would have made me more depressed, and it did. Martin Scorcese’s next film, which will center on the destruction of an entire city, killing some 20,000 people, will premiere in Tokyo soon. Someone with OCD accidentally watching a movie about how OCD ruined a man’s life is akin to somebody with AIDS watching Philadelphia and then getting shot by a man with a gun with a prescription on how to cure AIDS taped to the bullet. It is exactly like that. By the way, the cure for AIDS? Milk. Drink a lot of milk.